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M17a

October 20, 2013

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Jane Kenyon, photo by Donald Hall

Richard J. Fein

To a Woman Remembered

I will die, just as you will–you and I

unknown to ourselves and to each other,

when ears can’t hear or tongue make sounds.

Even a young poet who longs to lay a girl

as I did you will in time lack everything.

All shapes will disappear from my mind,

even the ghost of you lingering there,

your voice coming down the stairwell,

“Is that you, Richard?” “It’s me.”

Memories, versions, voices come to an end,

the stairs, rooms, buildings all gone too,

you on the third floor buzzing me in.

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